


Parkinson's Knickers (Or Lack Thereof)

by thusspakekate (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Office Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:48:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thusspakekate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry always knew the monthly budget meetings were boring, but he didn't realize just how boring until Pansy Parkinson offered to show him something a little more interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parkinson's Knickers (Or Lack Thereof)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nearlyconscious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nearlyconscious/gifts).



Harry could feel his eyelids drooping. It didn't matter how much coffee he drank in the morning, he could never seem to make it through one of these ghastly budget meetings without falling asleep. It was like some sort of perverse, impossible test of wills that the Ministry had invented to torture the department heads. For three hours every month, they were all trapped in a poorly lit conference room and forced to listen to the most boring man on earth drone on about quarterly reports, dividends, and all other manner of tedium.   
  
He fought to keep his head upright, to keep his eyes open. But it was useless. He was so painfully, skull-crushingly bored. He didn't think he'd ever been this bored in his entire life. It made him long for Professor Binns' lectures, which were high-octane fun in comparison.  
  
Maybe if he stopped fighting it, maybe if he gave in for just a few seconds...  
  
Something sharped poked Harry in the thigh and he woke with a start, jumping in his seat. All eyes turned to look at him, including those of Percival Pinkas, the Ministry's chief financial analyst.  
  
“Is there a problem, Mister Potter?”  
  
“Um, no,” Harry said, feeling his face flame with embarrassment. He reached for the stack of papers in front of him and began to shuffle them. “Sorry. Please, uh, carry on.”  
  
Pinkas looked as though he knew exactly what was happening, but instead of reprimanding Harry for his lack of professionalism, he turned back to his chart and continued his evil plot of boring his victims into an early grave.  
  
When the attention was off him, Harry turned to glare at the witch beside him. Pansy Parkinson was staring at Pinkas as though she'd never heard of anything more fascinating than the increasing percentage of Ministry funds being diverted to janitorial services.   
  
Slowly, her eyes slid to the side and met Harry's. She winked.   
  
At thirty-three, Parkinson was not the youngest department head in Ministry history. That honor belonged to Harry himself, who had been promoted to Head of the MLE at the tender age of twenty-eight. She was, however, the youngest head the Department of Mysteries had ever seen. Harry supposed that all of the time she spent gossiping in school had given her a certain advantage when it came to secrets.   
  
She'd only held the position for the past six months, and besides these and a few other sporadic meetings, Harry had yet to really work with her. When he'd first heard about her promotion, he'd been apprehensive. He remembered her as she was at seventeen and imagined she would show up to the first meeting, lip curled and wand drawn, threatening to hex anyone didn't do exactly as she demanded.  
  
But surprisingly enough, she hadn't. She'd shown up to her first meeting, taken her seat, and listened dutifully and impassively the entire time. Afterward, he'd even seen her laughing with Gerard Britt, the head of Magical Games and Sports. And that was _with_  Gerard Britt, not at him. In the following weeks, Harry pressed the other department heads for their impressions of her, expecting to hear that she'd been terribly rude or insubordinate at some point.   
  
Instead, they'd all said much of the same: she was a bit cheeky, but clever; she took some liberties, but got the job done. Against all odds, Parkinson seemed to be quite popular with her colleagues.  
  
A loud snore from across the table interrupted the relative quiet of the room. Gertrude McKinley, head of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, was slumped forward in her seat, drool seeping from the corner of her mouth.  
  
Pinkas sighed. “All right everyone, take five. Go get some coffee.”  
  
***  
  
Ministry coffee tasted like a combination of an ashtray and old bathwater. Still, Harry tried to choke down two cups in the short reprieve they'd been granted. The other heads mingled around the small break room, chatting politely and asking after each others' families. As one of the younger heads, Harry had no family of his own to report on just yet, and was spared from these painful pleasantries.  
  
He was surprised to feel a tap on his shoulder. He spun around and ended up staring straight into Pansy Parkinson's smirking face.  
  
“Tired, Potter? You really should try to get your sleeping done at home, not at work.”  
  
Harry grunted noncommittally into his paper coffee cup. “Not the only one,” he said, gesturing in McKinley's direction.  
  
Parkinson followed his gaze. “You and Gerdie? Really?” She turned back to him with a look of surprise. “I would have never guessed. She seems a bit...mature for you, but who am I to judge? Love is blind, after all.”  
  
Harry blinked at her.  _What?_  
  
“Oh!” he cried, when his tired brain finally caught up. “Oh, God, no! No! Not what I meant at all!”  
  
Parkinson threw her head back and laughed, her heart-shaped face lit up with delight. “Calm down, Potter. I was only kidding. Everyone knows good old Gerdie's prefers women anyway. And you're not a—” she sent a questioning look at Harry's crotch. “You're not, are you? I mean, you do have a cock, right?”  
  
Harry could feel his eyes his eyes bugging out of his head. Even though there wasn't anyone within earshot, he felt compelled to grab Parkinson by the arm and drag her towards an empty corner.  
  
“Of course I've got a—” He couldn't bring himself to say it. People couldn't just around saying things like 'cock' at work. “Of course I do!”  
  
She only laughed and raised her coffee to her lips. “You're fun,” she said, grinning at him over the top of her cup. “And you fluster so easily.”  
  
Harry frowned. Of course, she was only trying to rile him up. He wanted to be angry, but she wasn't being malicious, just...cheeky.   
  
“What about you?” he asked, steering the conversation away from himself and his cock. “You seem to make it through these meetings pretty well. What's your secret? Pepper Up in your coffee?”  
  
Parkinson looked mildly impressed. “No, but that's an idea.” With a sigh, she drained the rest of her drink and tossed the empty cup into the bin. “I only manage to get through these things because I don't even try to pay attention.” She shrugged. “I just spend the whole time fantasizing.”  
  
“Fantasizing?” Harry repeated.“About what?”  
  
“Wouldn't you like to know,” she drawled, the smirk returning.  
  
Harry found himself blushing a lot more than usual today. He wanted to tell her that, no, he actually didn't want to know, because that was personal and if he'd known she meant it like  _that_ , he wouldn't have asked at all. But before he got a chance to clear up that up, she was walking away.  
  
She paused and spared him a glance over her shoulder, giving him an approving once-over.  
  
“I'm happy to hear that you do, in fact, have a cock, Potter. That knowledge should make the rest of this meeting a little more bearable.”  
  
Harry didn't have chance to ask what the hell she meant by that. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know.  
  
***  
  
The rest of the meeting was torture. The caffeine from the coffee was making him jittery, but no less bored. For the first time in his many years of attending these meetings, he was actually trying to pay attention to what was being said. He needed the distraction, because every time his mind turned away from expenditures and cash flow, it turned towards Parkinson.  
  
Was she really just sitting there fantasizing? Sure, sometimes his mind wandered off during business hours and ended up places that weren't entirely work-appropriate, but he didn't make a point to do it. And he certainly didn't tell other people about it.  
  
He tried not to think about what she'd said right before she'd left. She was likely trying to wind him up again, just provoking him to see what kind of reaction she'd get. But still, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe she  _was_  thinking about him right then, if he might be a player in whatever little fantasy her mind had conjured to get her through the meeting.   
  
What did a woman like Pansy Parkinson fantasize about anyway? A part of Harry worried that it was filthy and perverted. Another part of him kind of hoped that it was.  
  
Next to him, she cleared her throat. Harry jumped at the sound, not realizing that he'd been  _staring_  at her. God, she probably thought he was such a creep. Quickly, he turned away, forcing his mind back to operational costs.   
  
There was another sharp jab to his thigh. He looked down in time to see her push a folded piece of paper towards him. He sent her a questioning look, but she only smiled and turned her attention back to Pinkas.  
  
Carefully, Harry unfolded the note. He nearly choked on his own spit when he read it.  
  
 _I'm not wearing any knickers._  
  
Harry's eyes darted from the paper to Parkinson to Pinkas and then back to the paper. She could not be serious.   
  
Without looking, she reached over and pulled the paper back towards her. She picked up her quill and wrote something else.  
  
Nervously, he looked down and read it.  
  
 _Want to see?_  
  
Harry had to close his eyes to steady himself as arousal crept up his spine. Things like this didn't just happen, and if they did, they happened to other men. Knickerless women didn't just offer to show people their fannies in the middle of budget meetings. It was wrong. Weird and wrong.   
  
And yet, despite the weirdness and the wrongness of the whole situation, Harry found that he really did want to see.   
  
He could forced himself to look at her, to hold her challenging gaze, but he couldn't quite bring himself to nod. There was still a part of him that didn't trust her. He'd admit that he wanted to, and then she burst into laughter, taunting and teasing him for his pathetic and creepy desire to look up her skirt.   
  
In the end, she made the decision for him. Without breaking eye contact, Parkinson knocked her quill off the edge of the table with a quick swish of her hand.  
  
“Whoopsie. Would you mind getting that for me, Potter?”  
  
Harry chanced a nervous look around, but no one was paying them any attention. Trying to be as quiet as humanly possible, he scooted his chair away from the table and sunk to the floor. As he crawled beneath the table, Parkinson began to turn, angling herself in his direction. Her hands appeared beneath the bottom of the table, taking hold of her skirt.  
  
Harry's mouth went instantly dry. He couldn't see anything yet and each passing second felt like an eternity as he watched her slowly open her legs. Though half hidden in shadow, he could see the outer lips of her hairless cunt nestled between pale thighs. She scooted down in her chair, spreading her legs further, until her high-heeled feet were far apart and the glistening pink of her inner folds were visible.  
  
His heart was pounding in his chest, his cock swelling in his trousers. Even in the dim light beneath the table he could tell that she was wet, and he didn't think he was imagining the fact he could smell her arousal. God, what he would do to crawl forward just a foot, to bury his face between her legs and inhale that glorious, musky sent. If he were a different sort of person, if they were  _anywhere_  but here, he might actually do it.  
  
He moved forward, just an inch, wanting to commit this sight to memory. He already knew he'd be thinking about this many times in the future, replaying this moment in his mind with various endings, none of which would involve returning to his seat.  
  
His hand landed on something sharp and he winced, snatching it away. The quill lay on the ground, forgotten, and as soon as he saw it a devious idea stole through him.   
  
Parkinson was playing with him, trying to tease him to madness. Turn about was only fair play.   
  
Holding the nub in his hand, Harry slowly ran the feathered end of the quill up Pansy's calf. Her reaction was immediate. Above the table, she let out a gasp, and beneath the table, her legs snapped shut. She squirmed in her seat for a moment, and then her hands appeared, tugging the bottom of her skirt back down.   
  
Harry despaired the loss of such a beautiful sight, but figured he'd spent more than enough time beneath the table to arouse suspicion. And he'd certainly gotten more than enough wanking material to last a good while. Slowly, he crawled out and climbed to his feet.   
  
Everyone was staring at him. He held up the quill as a meager apology.  
  
“Found it,” he said, face burning with shame. “Please, continue.”  
  
A few people continued to watch him suspiciously, but Harry forced himself to ignore them as he returned to his seat, trying to disguise the discrete readjustment of his erection as an attempt to comfortably settle in for the long haul.   
  
Once the meeting was back in full swing, he sneaked a glance at Parkinson from the corner of his eye. She was staring straight ahead, but suppressing a smirk.  
  
***  
  
By the time the meeting was finally over, Harry's erection had more or less wilted. He gathered his things and turned towards the door, just in time to see Parkinson slip out of it.  
  
“Hey! Parkinson!” he called out, jogging to catch up with her at the end of the corridor. “Wait up!”  
  
She stopped and turned to face him expectantly. “Can I help you with something?”  
  
Harry drew up short, thrown off by her abrupt change in demeanor. Thirty minutes ago she'd been sending him sly smiles and knowing smirks; now she looked as though she were irritated by his very presence.  
  
“I, um... I was just wondering what you were up to now.”  
  
She sighed, readjusting the folders she was carrying so she could glance at her watch. “Seeing as it's three o'clock in the afternoon, I'm going back to my office to do some work.”  
  
“Oh.” Harry felt slightly foolish. That had been a rather lame chat-up line. “Well, what about later? After work, I mean.”  
  
She shifted the load in her arms again. “I don't know. Going home, eating supper, taking a bath. Why?” Her eyes narrowed and a slow, amused smile spread across her face. “You're not trying to ask me out, are you, Potter?”  
  
The way she said it, as though it were an absurd notion that came from nowhere, as though he should be  _embarrassed_  for even thinking she'd condescend to agree, forced Harry back a step. He didn't understand. He'd seen her vagina, for fuck's sake. You'd think drinks would be a given after that.  
  
“It's nothing personal,” she continued easily. “I just make it a point not to date colleagues. It's messy and unprofessional, and quite honestly, never really worth it. As flattered as I am, I'm going to have to politely decline.”  
  
Harry stared at her, incredulous. “Getting dinner with a colleague is unprofessional, but flashing him your fanny isn't?”  
  
Parkinson shurgged. “Never said it wasn't. Look: you were bored, I was bored, we made the meeting a little more fun. It's not a big deal. You didn't fall asleep again, did you?”  
  
He snorted. “No, I definitely did not.”  
  
“See?” she chirped. “It worked!” Her smile softened, turned  _almost_  kind. “See you next month, Potter.”  
  
Harry watched her saunter away without once looking back. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't squash the feeling of disappointment in his gut.  
  
***  
  
An entire month didn't have to pass before Harry saw her again. The Ministry was big, but not that big. Two weeks after that fateful budget meeting, Harry found himself stuck at work afterhours, putting the finishing touches on his department's productivity reports. It was not so late by the time he finished that the Ministry was completely deserted, but the hustle and bustle of the workday had ended, and the overpaid (according to Percival Pinkas, at least) janitorial staff had begun their rounds.  
  
Normally, Harry took the stairs up to the lobby. It was only one level and not worth fighting the crush of Ministry workers eager to get home. But with no one around and his energy zapped from tedious paperwork, he decided it was all right to be lazy just this one.  
  
There were two people already on the lift when the caged doors slid open. An older gentleman whom Harry thought he recognized as a Obliviator and, of course, Pansy Parkinson.  
  
Harry nodded at the man and stepped inside, purposefully standing closer to Parkinson than was necessary in the nearly abandoned lift. She didn't move away or even really look at him as the doors shut and the lift began to rise.   
  
The soothing, pre-recorded voice announced their arrival at the lobby. The doors openned and the older man scampered out. Harry didn't step towards the exit, and neither did Parkinson. They stood side-by-side as the doors shut and the lift sat, silent and immobile.  
  
They were each waiting for the other to do or say something, but neither did. The expectant tension in the air grew thicker between them. She could have left, Harry thought, could have walked right through those doors without a second thought and went about her evening. But she hadn't. She had stayed. There had to be a reason.  
  
Anticipation stole through Harry, shootting down down his spine and straight to his toes.  _Something_  was about to happen. He could feel it.  
  
Still, Parkinson did nothing. It was up to him and he was tired of waiting.  
  
He moved quickly, turning on his heel so that he was standing directly in front of her, crowding her space. She made a noise of surprise and stepped back, bumping into the mirrored wall behind her. Her breath hitched as he stepped closer, caging her between his arms.   
  
“What do you think you're doing?” she asked.   
  
Despite the slight tremor in her voice, she didn't look at all scared. There was a mischievous glint in her eye.  
  
Harry somehow managed to keep his hand from shaking as he trailed it up the back of her thigh, pausing to finger the hem of her skirt. “Just checking something,” he said, surprised by how confident his voice came out.   
  
It  _almost_  sounded as if he had any clue in hell what he was doing.  
  
Parkinson closed her eyes, but didn't protest. Her breaths became shallower and shakier the higher Harry's hands moved, until his fingers was slowly stroking the length of her slit, unencumbered by lace, cotton, or any other sort of fabric.  
  
“Fuck,” he breathed, stepping even closer, so he could feel the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest as she drew in unsteady breaths. Each time his fingers teased the seam of her bare cunt it came back slicker. “Do you ever wear your knickers, Parkinson?”  
  
She didn't open her eyes, just turned her head to the side. “No,” she whispered. She looked up at him then, staring at him coquettishly through her lashes. “Not if I think I might run into you.”  
  
It was a line if Harry ever heard one, but he didn't care. The idea that Parkinson walked around knickerless all of the time—just waiting,  _hoping_ , that something like this would happen between them—made his blood thrum. It didn't even matter if it wasn't true.  
  
Just a little pressure and his finger slipped between her outer lips, to where her skin was slick and warm. God, she was already so wet, so soft and swollen from nothing but a few light touches. He could feel the heat of her against his palm as he searched her sodden folds for her clit. She let out a tiny gasp and grabbed onto his shoulders.  
  
Harry's cock was already aching, cruelly trapped inside his trousers. He wanted to take it out and take her right there, her back against the wall of the lift, her legs around his waist. But first, he wanted to watch her come. He wanted to look into her eyes as he brought her off with noting more than a few fingers and his—  
  
 _“Doors opening on Lobby level,”_  announced the cool overhead voice.  
  
“Shit!” Parkinson cried as the metal doors of the lift began to slide open,. She shoved hard against Harry's chest.   
  
Harry snatched his hand away and managed to jump a few feet to the side before the doors opened to reveal a short, middle-aged witch with fussy hairdo that sat lopsidedly on the top of her head. The witch paused midstep and looked at them with narrowed eyes for a moment before throwing her nose into the air and stepping onto the lift purposefully.  
  
“Your skirt,” she said with a little cough, turning her back to them both.  
  
Parkinson had had just enough time to cover herself, but her skirt was still bunched up around her thighs. Her pale face flushed as she tugged it down to her knees.  
  
“Excuse me,” she mumbled, shouldering her way out of the lift.  
  
The middle-aged witch reached for the panel of buttons. “Going down, young man?”   
  
Harry was sure he could hear the snicker in her voice.   
  
“No,” he said bitterly as he moved past her and stepped into the lobby. He looked around, but Parkinson was already gone. “Not anymore.”  
  
  
***  
  
A week later, and Harry had neither seen nor heard anything from Parkinson. He had trouble believing she was the type of woman who would avoid someone like that, but then again, she had done a rather stealthy disappearing act that night after the incident in the lift.   
  
The incident in the lift. That was what he had come to refer to it as, even if only in his mind. He hadn't mentioned it to anyone, because really, what was there to mention? They'd been interrupted before anything really good have happened.   
  
Between the “incident in the lift” and “that time in the meeting,” Harry's cock had never been more sore. The more he tried not to think about it, the more incessantly his mind replayed the two encounters, until he was forced to find a few minutes of privacy where he could attend to himself. Before this had all started, he'd never wanked at work. And now, if he had to excuse himself one more time, he'd be at a baker's dozen!  
  
There was a knock on his office door. Harry looked up, eager for the distraction. Payroll was one of the least glamorous parts of his job.   
  
Ron slunk into the room, his long face red and angry. He slumped in the chair in front of Harry's desk and crossed his arms.   
  
Harry raised his eyebrows. “Something wrong?”  
  
“Is there something wrong?” Ron repeated angrily. “I'd say there is! It's that bitch down in the Department of Mysteries, that's what's wrong!”  
  
Harry felt his stomach drop. He hadn't told Ron about whatever it was he had going with Parkinson because he didn't even know what it was himself, not because he'd thought Ron would be pissed about it. Sure, Ron could hold a grudge longer than most people, but they were more than ten years out of school and as far as Harry knew, Parkinson hadn't done anything to any Weasley in all that time.  
  
Ron let out an enormous sigh and leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees. “Look, mate, I'm sorry,” he said wearily. “I really tried to keep this off your desk. I know how busy you are with everything, but I'm not getting anywhere with her.”  
  
Harry blinked. All right, now he was totally confused.  
  
“Remember that case that MacDougal was working on? The one with the magical signatures we couldn't figure out?”   
  
Cautiously, Harry nodded.  
  
“Well, MacDougal, bloody idiot that he is, wanted to call the Unspeakables in to consult, and I, bloody idiot that I am, approved. And now, they've taken the whole bloody case over! They set some sort of decryption spell over all of our files so that we can't even read them, and they're claiming jurisdiction! I tried to go down and talk to Parkinson myself, but that went about as well as you could expect. She's a real nasty piece of work, that one.” Ron snorted. “Makes you wonder how she even got that job in the first place,” he added darkly.  
  
“Hey!” Harry said, a bit sharper than he'd intended. “Watch it.”  
  
Ron looked at him queerly for a moment and mumbled a hasty apology. “Anyway, I'm real sorry to have to bring this to you. I'm sure you've got things you'd rather do than try and deal with that—” he cut himself off, “—with other departments. But maybe you can just go down there, throw your weight around a little bit, get our case back for us.”  
  
Harry sighed, making a big production of closing his payroll folder. Internally, he was thrilled to have a legitimate excuse to see Parkinson, but he still needed to play the role of the annoyed, time-constrained boss.   
  
“It's fine,” he said, waving his hand to dismiss Ron's worries. “I'll get it sorted.”  
  
Ron shot him a mixture of a smile and grimace. “Thanks, mate. Knew you would.”  
  
When Ron was finally gone, Harry quickly tidied his office. He felt silly as he was doing it, but still, there was no need for yesterday's sandwich to be sitting on the windowsill. And when was the last time he cleaned out from under his sofa? Was that mold? Really?  
  
When everything was in order and his office looked the way a very important person's office should look, Harry returned to his desk and pressed the intercom that connected him to his secretary.  
  
“Belinda? Call down to the Department of Mysteries. Tell Ms Parkinson that I'd like a word.”  
  
***  
  
Harry's intercom buzzed roughly two seconds before the door to his office banged open.   
  
 _“Sorry Mister Potter! I asked her to wait, but she wouldn't!”_  
  
“That's fine, Belinda. Thank you,” Harry said into the intercome, eyes tracking Parkinson as she sauntered into his office and immediately began to poke through the things on his bookshelf.   
  
With a lazy flick of his wand, he closed the door and pointed to the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat, please.”  
  
Parkinson arched an eyebrow, but said nothing as she lowered herself into the seat. She took a very long time crossing her legs, and they both knew why.  
  
“You wanted to see me, sir?”  
  
Harry ignored the cheekily added 'sir' and fought to keep his eyes off of her legs, which seemed even longer and shapelier than usual.   
  
“I want to talk to you about the case your department stole from us.”  
  
Parkinson held up her hand, effectively interrupting him. “I already told Weasley to piss off about it. I'd rather not have to say the same to you. I'd really rather not damage our... rather amicable working relationship.”  
  
Oh, so that's what she wanted to call it? Harry tried not to laugh.   
  
“MacDougal already logged one hundred and thirty-five field hours before you snatched that case from him. It's rightfully his. I'd appreciate it if you would give it back, even if its just as a professional courtesy to me.”  
  
It was Parkinson's term to suppress a chuckle. “I think I've done you enough professional courtesies as it is,” she said. “Either way, he can't have it back. I don't care who opened the case, it's ours. It's  _our_  magic, so it's our case.”  
  
Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”  
  
The lazy, teasing smile slipped from her face. “You know the spell your Aurors couldn't trace? The autopsy reports that came back with nothing? It's our spell, Potter,  _we_ invented it. Which means your culprit is either one of our own, or we've got a leak somewhere in the department.”   
  
Harry opened his mouth, but she held up her hand again. “Don't even bother asking what it is, I'm not going to tell you. When we figure out what's going on, we'll hand over a name to your department. None of my people have the authority to make an arrest, so you and MacDougal will still get all the glory.”  
  
In truth, Harry didn't really care who led the investigation, as long as the culprit was caught. If she was telling the truth, it was probably better handled by the Unspeakables than his people. MacDougal wasn't going to be happy, and Ron was probably going to say all sorts of unkind things about Parkinson when he didn't think Harry could hear him. Maybe he should propose some sort joint task-force. That would mean long hours working together, maybe long even a few long nights.  
  
“If you don't believe me, just ask Internal Affairs,” Parkinson continued, mistaking his silence for suspicion. Her expression soured. “I've been in godawful meetings with them all week.”  
  
“Have you?” Harry asked automatically. He'd had an almost Pavlovian reaction to the word 'meeting.'   
  
Her delicately arched eyebrow rose again. “I have,” she said, shifting in her seat. She uncrossed her legs and recrossed them in the other direction. “And they've all been terribly boring.”  
  
Harry's eyes wandered towards his door. He wondered if he could cast a locking spell without her noticing and getting the wrong idea. Well, it would most likely be the right idea, but he didn't want to seem too presumptuous.  
  
“That's a shame,” he said, forcing himself to hold her gaze. Fuck, she was so sexy and she knew it. “I know how much you hate boring meetings.”  
  
“On the contrary, I love them.” She cocked her head to the side, a slow smile spreading. “They give me lots of time to think.”  
  
Were they really going to do this here? Harry really, really hoped so. There would be no one to interrupt them this time, no excuse for her to run away and leave him hanging.   
  
Fuck, he  _really_  needed to lock that door.  
  
He sat back in his chair, trying to project an image of cool calmness, though his heart was actually about to pound right out of his chest.   
  
“And what sorts of things do you like to think about in these meetings?”  
  
Parkinson was the first to break eye contact. She looked down, and Harry could have sworn he saw the hint of a blush strain her cheeks. But even then, he couldn't be sure it wasn't some sort of act.   
  
“In today's meeting I thought about all the errands I have to run this weekend. I decided which of my furs I'm going to collect from storage this winter and which I'm not. I also wrote a shopping list in my head and tried to remember all the ingredients in Felix Felicis.”  
  
That was... not the answer Harry expected.   
  
She took a deep breath and looked up at him through her lashes. “I also thought about you.”  
  
“About me?” Harry repeated, warmth spreading through his belly. Yes, they were  _definitely_  about to do this here. “What about me?”  
  
“I thought about what might have happened that night in the lift, if we hadn't been interrupted. About what you might have done to me, and how much I might have liked it.”  
  
Harry sat forward, not even caring if he seemed overeager. He  _was_  overeager.  
  
“What would I have done?”  
  
It took her a moment to answer, and when she finally did, her voice was so low and husky Harry had to strain to hear it.  
  
“You would have wanted to see for sure that I wasn't wearing my knickers. You would have to told me to strip, to get naked right then and there, in the middle of the lift, so you could see.”  
  
She looked at him briefly, then lowered her gaze to her lap, where her hands were playing with the hem of her skirt.   
  
“And would you have?”  
  
“Yes,” she whispered, closing her eyes.   
  
It didn't matter to Harry if it was another lie, it was a beautiful idea.   
  
“I would have,” she continued, “because you told me to. I'd have hear you lower your zip and tried to look, but you'd have told me to turn around and stick out my arse instead. Then you'd have rubbed your cock all over my arse, telling me that if I want to walk around without knickers like some kind of slut, you were going to fuck me like one.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes as an overwhelming wave of lust crashed over him. He'd never called a woman a slut before, certainly not while trying to have sex with her, but he could see the image Parkinson was painting clear as day in his mind. He reached down and pressed the heel of his hand against his cock, trying to keep his arousal at bay.   
  
“You'd fuck me then,” she continued, her voice barely more than a throaty whisper. “Up against the wall, my face mashed against the mirror. It'd feel so good, your hard cock inside of me, fucking me in half, fucking me open. You'd have one hand between my legs, playing with my clit, and the other on the back of my neck, holding me in place while you fucked me like a little slut.”  
  
By the time she finished, Parkinson was breathing heavily, squirming in her seat as she rubbed her thighs together. The motion made her skirt ride up dangerously high. Only a few scant inches of fabric separated Harry from the thing he wanted to see more than anything in the world.   
  
“Touch yourself,” he said said breathlessly.  
  
She stopped fidgeting and stared at him. “What?” she asked, chest heaving, the peaks of her hardened nipples visible through the thin fabric of her blouse.  
  
“Touch yourself,” Harry repeated. “Lift up your skirt. Show me what you do when you're not in a meeting.”  
  
A long moment stretched between them. Parkinson seemed to be debating with herself whether or not to do it. Finally, she nodded, taking a small, but steady breath.   
  
“Only if you do it too.”  
  
Harry didn't have to think twice. He fumbled with the buttons of his trousers and yanked down his zip, groaning with relief as he pulled his swollen cock out of his pants.   
  
Parkinson's hands were balled in the fabric of her skirt. “I can't see. Come around the desk.”  
  
Harry felt a bit silly, walking around his desk with his trousers shoved down around his thighs and his painful erection jutting out in front of him, but his self-consciousness disappeared when he saw Parkinson's eyes go wide. She licked her lips as she watched him settle onto the edge of the desk.  
  
He grabbed his wand off the top of his desk and threw a locking charm at the door, no longer feeling the need to be discrete. Taking himself in hand, Harry gave his throbbing cock a few gentle strokes as he watched Parkinson pull her skirt up further, struggling to get the tight fabric above her wide hips.   
  
It wasn't the sexiest thing he'd ever seen a woman do, but then she did something that absolutely blew his mind and might have quiet possibly been the sexiest thing anyone had  _ever_  seen. She scooted down in the chair, until her arse practically hung off the bottom of the seat, and swung her legs over each of the arms.  
  
Harry had to squeeze the base of his cock to stop himself from coming right then and there. She was entirely on display. It was a bold, brazen move, even for a woman who walked around without knickers all of the time. She let her head fall over the back of the chair as her hands moved down her body, stopping to grope her own breasts through her shirt.   
  
Harry groaned as he watched one of her hands continue its downward journey, bypassing her clit entirely. She sunk two fingers inside herself easily, and Harry watched with rapt fascination as she fucked herself with them. She was in constant motion: her hips rolling, her free hand kneading her breasts, her fingers plunging in and out of herself.   
  
So enraptured by the unbelievable show she was putting on, Harry had almost forgotten about touching himself entirely.  
  
“What about you?” she asked, voice small and breathless. “What do you think about?”  
  
“You,” he answered, well beyond teasing. There was no need to be coy anymore. “I think about the last budget meeting, about what I should have done.”  
  
Parkinson groaned, her eyelids fluttering shut. “What should you have done?”  
  
Harry began to stroke himself in earnest again, squeezing the neck of his cock with a little more pressure than he would normally use. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so turned on, so disorientingly aroused. He felt himself torn in three equally pleasurable directions, his attentions split between wanking himself blind, watching Parkinson fuck herself on her fingers, and answering her question.  
  
“What should you have done?” she repeated. “Come on, Potter. Fucking tell me.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes. He could still hear her, the shortness of her breath, the obscene slick sounds of her fingers moving inside herself, but at least this way he might be able to think straight enough to answer.  
  
“I should have stayed beneath that table,” he said, groaning as the oft-repeated fantasy began to replay in his mind and his hand jerked around the shaft of his cock. “I should have spread your legs as far apart as they would go and buried myself between your thighs. I should have sucked your clit into my mouth, should have stuck my tongue inside your dripping pussy. I should have fucked you with my mouth until you came all over my face, gasping and screaming and shouting my name.”  
  
Parkinson let a low, throaty moan. Harry opened his eyes just in time to see the hand on her breast join its mate between her legs and begin to rub small circles over her clit.  
  
“Fuck yeah, Potter. You should have done that. You really should have done that.”  
  
“But I couldn't have,” Harry continued, shutting his eyes and letting another one of the many fantasies he'd recently come to cherish take form in his brain.“I could have tried, but you would have tried to stop me. You would have whimpered and tried to close your legs, but I wouldn't have let you. I would have kept going, made you squirm in your seat and try to stifle your moans. But it wouldn't have been any use, everyone would have known. The entire meeting would have stopped and stared, watching you get off on my tongue. But right when you were about to lose it, that was when I should have stopped, when I should have climbed out from underneath that table and turned you over it. I should have fucked you right there, bent over that table, everyone watching. Everyone knowing what a little slut you are, seeing how much you liked it, how wet you her from flashing your tight little cunt to everyone in the room.”  
  
Harry was light-headed by the time he finished, his hands slick and sticky from the precome that had dribbled from the head of his cock. He opened his eyes to find Parkinson staring straight at him, eyes darkened with lust. Her hands had stilled inside herself and when their eyes met, she let out a broken, ragged breath.  
  
“I've got to fuck you right now, Potter.”  
  
Harry barely had time to nod before Parkinson launched herself out of the seat. She crashed against him, knocking him back against the desk as her mouth sought his for a sloppy, heated kiss. Harry reached behind himself blindly, pushing as much as he could from the top of his desk onto the floor, not caring if inkwells spilled or important documents were lost.   
  
Parkinson batted his hand away and took hold of his cock, pumping it firmly in her small hand. Harry's entire body shuddered, from the roots of his hair down to his toenails. Every fucking inch of his skin was on fire. Wrapping his arms around her back, he dragged her towards him. She scrambled onto his lap and pushed at his chest until he lied down, the unrelenting wood of his desk holding his back stiff and straight.   
  
It was awkward and uncomfortable, lying diagonally across his own desk, his legs hanging off the edge. But it barely mattered, because he knew that as soon as he was inside her, as soon as his cock was buried deep her hot little cunt, the words 'awkward' and 'uncomfortable' would cease to exist.  
  
She straddled his hips and hovered above him, lining the tip of his cock with her entrance. Harry strained his neck, lifting his head so he could watch as she lowered himself onto him.   
  
“Fuck,” he hissed, pleasure shooting through his entire body as he was engulfed in her wet, clinging heat. He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling, too overwhelmed by the feeling of her cunt wrapped tightly around his cock for him to do anything but lie there and just  _feel_.   
  
Parkinson, it seemed, had no such difficulty. Immediately, she began to move, grinding herself against him. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest, rolling her hips, leaving sticky smears of her wet on his skin as she tried to rub herself off against him.   
  
She was being selfish, moving with only her own pleasure in mind, but Harry didn't mind. Everything she was doing felt bloody amazing and he was liable to come his brains out at any second. He reached down, taking two large handfuls of her arse, kneading the flesh between his fingers as he pushed and pulled her against him, lifting his hips so she could rut against the flat of his groin.  
  
“Shit,” she wheezed, She reached up, digging her fingers into his shoulders as the slow roll of her hips sped, becoming jagged, staccato snaps. “Fuck, Potter. Your cock feels so good.”  
  
Harry couldn't formulate an answer. He wanted to tell her how good she felt too, how amazingly warm and wet and tight and hot her cunt was, how perfect she felt, how he was going to lose it at any moment, how she was going to make him come harder than he ever had in his life.  
  
He wanted to tell her all of this, but he couldn't manage anything besides a few broken grunts.   
  
“I'm going to come,” she announced, her body beginning to tremble. “Oh, fuck me, Potter. I'm going to come, I'm going to come all over your cock.” She threw her head back, lips curling into a snarl. “Come for me, Potter. Fuck me and come for me, fuck me full of your come!”  
  
“Fuck!” Harry cried out, gasping. The muscles inside her were fluttering, squeezing his aching cock, wrenching his orgasm from deep inside him. He held onto her stuttering hips, holding them in place as sharp bursts of white-hot pleasure exploded, making stars burst behind his eyelids and electricity shoot through his spine. He came for what felt like ages, but in reality couldn't have been more than twenty seconds.   
  
When he opened his eyes, Parkinson was staring down at him with a tired smile. Hair was stuck to her face with sweat; the top two buttons on her blouse were somehow missing. She looked thoroughly shagged and sexier than ever.  
  
She slumped over his body, taking his face between her hands and kissing him gently. Exhaustion and peace and simple bloody contentment flooded through him.  
  
She pulled away, resting her forehead against his. “That was...” she trailed off with a sigh.  
  
“Fucking amazing?”  
  
“Yeah, that was pretty fucking amazing.”   
  
They stayed like that for a long moment, Harry's hands stroking gently across her back.  
  
“All right,” Parkinson said with a groan once their breathing had stabilized. “I'd better get off before we get stuck like this.”  
  
Reaching behind herself, she took hold the base of his cock and grimacing as she lifted herself off of him. She stumbled as she climbed off the desk and had to reach for the back of the chair to keep herself from falling. Harry sat up, wincing as his back cracked.   
  
“Next time, we'll have to find something more comfortable than my desk,” he said as he swung his legs over the edge of the desk and tucked his still-sensitive cock back inside his trousers. “My vote is for a bed.”  
  
Parkinson stopped dead in her tracks, her tight pencil skirt only halfway down her thighs.   
  
“Next time? Potter, I already told you. I don't date my colleagues.”  
  
Harry stared at her, unsure if he was too surprised or too tired to have a proper reaction. He made a vague, haphazard gesture between the them and the desk. “What? What was all that?”  
  
“ _That_ ”, she said pointedly, “was just sex.”  
  
He rolled his eyes. “All right,” he amended, “next time we have 'just sex,' we'll have to do it somewhere more comfortable. My vote is still for a bed.”  
  
Parkinson raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you so sure there will be a next time?”  
  
Harry just looked at her over the top of his glasses. If that had been half as good for her as it had been for him (and he was pretty confident that it was), there was absolutely going to be a next time. There were going to be  _multiple_  next times.  
  
“Fine,” she huffed. “Say—hypothetically speaking—that there was a next time. You think you could handle it without getting all attached? Because I'm not kidding when I say I won't get romantically involved with a coworker. I'll break your heart, Potter, I don't even care.”  
  
He couldn't help but laugh. There was one thing that obviously hadn't changed since school: she still thought very highly of herself.   
  
“I'll do my best not to fall in love with you, all right?”  
  
“Well, you can try,” she said, shaking her head, “but don't get your hopes up. I'm pretty fucking loveable.” She fiddled with the top of her blouse, trying to keep the fabric closed over her cleavage without the buttons. “Damn it all, I'm going to have to go home and change.”  
  
Harry followed her to the door, wondering what was the proper way to say goodbye to someone you'd just had sex with in the middle of the afternoon, whom you were explicitly  _not dating_.  
  
In the end, all the thinking made his head hurt, and he decided to go with his instinct. Before she could twist the door handle, he grabbed her around the waist and hauled her towards him, catching her mouth in a slow, deep kiss. She melted against him, her hands coming up to thread through the hair on the back of his head.   
  
Parkinson moaned into his mouth, and when he started to pull away, she actually whimpered.   
  
When he let her go, she stepped back, eyes glassy and slightly dazed, one hand held against lips.   
  
“Oh, man,” she said, slightly breathless. “You're really screwed, Potter. You're definitely going to fall in love with me.”  
  
“Am I?” he asked, taking another step towards her. Just one more kiss. For the road.  
  
“Yeah,” she shakily, her hand still pressed to her lips. “I can already tell. I've got...I've got to go.”   
  
She groped blindly behind herself and twisted the doorhandle, stumbling backwards through the door.  
  
Harry stepped into the corridor and watched as she hurried away from him once again. But this time, she turned around and looked back.


End file.
